The Belle Reve Tango: A Music Meister Fanfiction
by spoonfulofwhoopass
Summary: After a failed attempt at world domination, the infamous Music Meister is sent to Belle Reve Penitentiary. Begrudgingly, he is forced to spend time with annoying inmates, intimidating guards, and a precocious psychologist. He still has so many plans for the world! But it's hard to sing with a collar around your neck, hard to dance with shackles on your feet.
1. Chapter One: Dr James Tapper

Chapter One: Dr. James Tapper

A young, red-haired man sits across from me. He doesn't slouch or put his feet up on the table like so many of my other patients. No, he is far too polite for that. He sits tall with his hands folded neatly in his lap. The bright orange jumpsuit contrasts sharply with the black inhibitor collar around his neck. And yet, he still looks rather put-together for an inmate.

All this, I write down on my clipboard, barely glancing up at him as I do. In my profession, sometimes it's best not to give them too much attention right off the bat. That doesn't stop him though. He looks over me, calculating and calm. He's used to getting his way, used to be the one in control of a room.

Not in here.

This is my house.

His telltale music note mask has since been replaced with a pair of plain, black glasses that frame his face. His hair is clean, but bereft of any product. His face was clean shaven, but has now grown a bit of fuzz after his first few days in here. Sharp, green eyes watch my every movement like a bird of prey.

Only after a good five minutes do I even deign to look up at him and offer a calm, practiced smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Masters. My name is Dr. James Tapper. I'm a psychologist here at Belle Reve, and provide inmates with assessments of their mental health. You're rather new, so you'll be seeing me every day for the next month until I've determined you don't need further treatment. That's something we can discuss at a later date. How are you today?"

His expression didn't change throughout the speech. Now, he leans forward, adjusting his position in the chair.

"I'm just fine, thank you. Doctor. And yourself?"

"Have you ever seen a therapist before?" I ask, skipping over his question. He smirks.

"This isn't my first rodeo, if that's what you mean. Yes, I've seen a number of specialists since I was a child. I know how this works."

I write that down on my paper. There's an air of smugness that hasn't quite been wiped away yet. He's only been here for four days though. For some, it takes time. Waller usually breaks them down one way or another. And if she doesn't, the other inmates will. So for now, he can have his pride. I make a note to bring that up later.

"Do you know why you're here?" I ask, "In Belle Reve, that is?"

"I doubt it's for a parking violation," he replies with a laugh. His expression goes quickly from playful to serious. "I suppose it's for trying to take over the world."

"And why did you do that?"

He doesn't answer that. The man just leans back in his chair with a crooked smile.

"You'll have to dig a bit deeper before learning all my secrets," he says. "I don't know you _nearly_ well enough to tell you just yet. Aren't you going to have me lie down on the couch and tell you my dreams first?"

Now it's my turn to laugh. I click my pen and drum it against my clipboard. Of course I know it's not going to be that easy (although a man could hope).

"That's not necessary. Yet, at least. I just thought it was the best place to start. It certainly seems like the biggest thing you've ever done. After all, before moving to Gotham, you were nobody."

I flip through his case file, ignoring the way he tenses when I say _nobody._ I make mental note of that as well.

"In fact," I continue, "Before you became the Music Meister, you lived in several different places. Chicago, Dallas, Vegas… they traced you right back to where you were born. It wasn't easy, apparently, since _no one_ knew who you were. There was just one clipping from a small-town paper that even gave us your home town. Here it is." I pull it out and hold it up for the man to see. "'Bertrand Masters, musical prodigy, astounds town of Pine Falls with a heartfelt rendition of _Ave Maria._ ' You made the first page when you were just ten years old."

He's glaring at me now, hands tightly clenched into fists. I'm not scared. The inhibitor collar represses his powers, keeps his voice at a pitch where he can't do a thing to harm me or anyone else. And if he were to even try to attack with his fists, he'd be struck to the ground with a good few thousand volts of electricity.

He can't touch me. And he knows it.

"Where did you get that?" he asks stiffly.

"I didn't. It was in your file. Took quite a few private detectives to find it. Even your real name was nearly impossible to get a hold of." I close the file and put it down on the table, sliding it towards him just a bit. I see his eyes looking at it hungrily, possibly with the urge to destroy it. This is a man who has spent his life covering up his past. Recreating himself. That plain, little folder is enough to make him sweat.

Good.

I lean back and cross my legs. The power balance in the room has shifted in my favor. I know more about him than he does about me, and that is exactly the way I like it.

"Allow me to make something clear," I say quietly, calmly meeting his furious gaze. "In this room, there are no secrets from me. If you want to survive in this place, if you have a prayer of getting out alive, you have to open up to me. By the end of our time together, I will know everything about you, whether you like it or not."

A vein throbs in his neck. He's really holding back his anger now. Maybe because he's never been challenged before. Or, he's never been rendered powerless before.

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"But you will. Everyone does, eventually." I smile widely at him and stand up. "I'm afraid our time is over for today. But you'll be back tomorrow. Thank you very much, Bertrand."

He winces as I say his name. The door opens and a pair of guards come in to take him back to the common area. I don't watch him as he leaves, though I feel his eyes on me. If looks could kill… I go back to my desk with his file and open it up for the hundredth time. The door closes and I begin to plan tomorrow's session.

"I think this was an excellent start…"


	2. Chapter Two: Edward Nigma

Chapter Two: Edward Nigma

"And so I said to him, 'Hey, that's no scarecrow, that's my wife!'"

The lunch table next to me bursts into laughter. Killer Croc nearly breaks the table by slamming his fist down so hard. I roll my eyes.

"Neanderthals…" I take another mouthful of mashed potatoes and go back to my book. Jervis lent me his copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ for a bit of fun. Not the collector's edition, mind you, but one of his lovely leather-bound copies (he must have, what, five different ones? No matter). I haven't read it since I was young, so it's been proving a nice way to pass the time. Between therapy sessions with Doctor Creepy and spending time with muscle-headed monsters and mob bosses, the classic book is something of an escape. I don't know if I would kidnap and brainwash people to reenact it, but I can understand the fascination Tetch has with it.

I take a sip of my water and turn the page only to be interrupted by the sound of a tray hitting the table in front of me. I look over at the other inmate with a raised eyebrow and recognize him immediately. First time in Belle Reve, tried to take over the world, foiled by the Bat. We've all been there. That doesn't mean he can sit at my table.

"That seat is taken," I say, going back to the book. "Go sit somewhere else."

"I'm not in the mood, Nigma," he mutters. He hunches over his lunch tray uncharacteristically forlornly. I can't help but ask why.

"Did they turn you down for the lead in the Christmas pageant?"

He scowls at me.

"Oh come now, I'm just teasing. Riddle me this: why do hummingbirds hum?" He just continues to glare. I shrug it off. "Think on it. Maybe it will take your mind off whatever's troubling you."

"Uh… thank you." He starts eating his lunch, which is probably cold by now.

"Were you in an appointment with the doctor?" I ask casually.

"Yes. He's certainly… charming." I notice the way he grips his fork tighter at that. Must not have been a good first meeting.

"He's not so bad," I reason. "He likes to pry into your business. If you know how to lie, he won't get into your head. Just don't try to stay silent for too long, or else he'll bring in Waller with her remote and you'll get shocked into talking."

He looked a bit green at that. This man was definitely not one for violence. It was a miracle how he'd been able to get as close as he did to taking over the world.

"This place is not how I imagined prison."

"It's not. It isn't for regular criminals. So consider yourself lucky. If you've made it here, you've made it to the big leagues."

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow at that.

"Really?"

"Oh, definitely," I say with a grin. "You know, half the people in here haven't gotten nearly as close as you have to their goals. Batman stopped them much earlier. You almost succeeded! You've earned your place here."

He smiles widely, showing off a gap between his two, front teeth. Well, it certainly didn't take long for his confidence to return.

"Just remember this for next time," I add, "The doctor doesn't know half as much of what he says he does."

"I will. Thank you." The man nods at me politely. "I don't think we've properly met. My name is Bertrand. the Music Meister." He extends a hand and I take it, giving it a light shake.

"Edward Nigma, the Riddler. A pleasure." It's strange, but he almost reminds me of myself when I was younger. Ambitious, clever, although he has the advantage of superpowers where I only have my brilliant mind. Still, he has the potential to be a successful villain if his hubris doesn't get in the way.

Friends are difficult to come by in Belle Reve. Every man would turn on one another for a taste of freedom after a while. But if you can find someone worthwhile and gain their trust, you win a powerful ally for the future.

"So… why _do_ hummingbirds hum?" he asks after a moment of silence.

"Ha," I chuckle. "Because they can't remember the words."


	3. Chapter 3: Bertrand Masters

Chapter Three: Bertrand Masters

My mind is made up.

I hate this place.

I hate the clothes, the inmates, the food, and especially the daily sessions with the shrink. The days have taken on a repetitive quality over the past week. Mundane, dreary, lonely.

There's breakfast every morning, usually unidentifiable paste on a tray. Bitter coffee and watered down juice. There's free time to read or work out or what have you. I usually stay in my cell and write. At least it's quiet there. Then, at eleven, I am escorted to my meeting with the doctor. Then lunch, more free time, and dinner.

I've been spending most of my time writing sonatas and poetry. It is a little difficult without a piano to work with, or even my voice, but at least it's something. I've found that even humming activates its mechanics, and have been shocked more than once for forgetting that. So, the hours are passed in silence.

At the very least, I can look forward to eating with Edward. Talking with him is always… interesting. His riddles can get a bit tedious, but after a session with Dr. Tapper, it's very welcome.

I sit in the same chair I do every day across from the doctor. There's very little in the room; a plain coffee table, his desk, two chairs, a window, a few bookshelves, his framed doctorate. No personal photos. No posters. Everything is very professional. Everything about his appearance is professional as well. Clean-shaven, short, brown hair, dark eyes, well-fitted suits. He's obviously paid well for his job. He has the kind of smile that makes him easy to trust, a seemingly open personality.

I despise him.

"Why don't we pick up where we left off yesterday?" he asks, flipping through his notes. "You were telling me about your childhood. Eighth grade, you were bullied, correct?"

"Yes," I say slowly. I keep in mind all that Nigma told me. "For being in the choir. It wasn't anything new, granted. But we thought that changing schools might help." I smile bitterly. "It didn't."

I see him write something down. Hopefully those acting lessons in junior high had paid off.

"You have to put _just_ enough truth in to make it believable," Edward said. "And don't cry right away. Wait until the third week for that."

"This was after your mother died, correct?" the doctor asks.

"Yes. Four years after." My voice catches a little in my throat, nearly imperceptibly. But he's a smart man. He notices it.

"Why don't you tell me a bit about your mother? We haven't talked much about her yet."

"That was on purpose," I say plainly, clenching and unclenching my fist. "I don't want to talk about her."

"Alright. Your father then. What was he like?"

"Hah… he was a monster." I shrug and lean against the back of the chair slightly. "My memories of him are hardly fond ones. Before mother died, I imagine he must have been kinder. But now, I can hardly remember that."

The doctor leans forward in his chair.

"How did he treat you and your mother?"

I pause.

"I think he loved her. At least, he seemed to. They weren't always happy, but they seemed to get along. When she died, he started drinking. His… unattractive side came out." I run my hand through my hair gently, as if searching for the words. "He didn't like my singing either. Or my clothes. Or my mannerisms."

"Was he accepting of your homosexuality?"

I pause, clenching my jaw. He's getting bolder with his observations. He's watching for my reaction, judging what I would say.

"I'm not gay, doctor. But he thought I was, and he didn't like it." The topic of conversation is getting a little too close for comfort. I clear my throat. "You ask a lot of questions without giving up anything in return," I say. "You don't think your patients would warm up to you a little more if you tried to be kind?"

"You're certainly one to talk about kindness, what with your track record," he chuckles. "The people in here that I see, they aren't normal. They often need a different kind of help than a psychologist would usually offer."

"Like the shock therapy?"

"That's a good example. You certainly won't find collars like that in a regular prison." He smiles that same, charming smile. "But these people are superhuman. It's taken a lot of trauma to get them in the physical and mental conditions they are in. They need a certain amount of persuasion to open up, more than regular humans. The methods of this place may be unorthodox, but with time, they're effective."

"I thought this was a prison. You make it sound like Arkham Asylum," I say skeptically.

"Mental health facilities don't always have the best housing space for this caliber of criminal. Or the right technology." He gestures back at the collar. "Although, there are a few inmates who've spent time in Arkham as well. It's often my job to recommend their admission to other facilities." I take a few moments to think that over. It may not be the most thrilling of topics, but at least he's stopped asking uncomfortable questions about me.

"How is it you manage to talk so much and give so little away?" I muse aloud. He laughs.

"Years of practice. It isn't easy." Before I can ask anything else, he turns the conversation back. "You've been spending a lot of time with Mister Nigma, isn't that right?"

"Well, yes, I have. This is hardly a place to make friends, but it's nice to have somebody to talk to."

"I see," he says, jotting something down on his pad. I take a moment to imagine shoving that pen through his jugular and watching him choke on the incriminating ink. "You're aware of his crimes?"

"He's a renowned criminal," I reply with a shrug. "I get the jist. He's nothing too impressive. A thief, mostly, but a successful one. He doesn't seem to have the same delusions of grandeur that I do."

"Well, he does think highly of himself," the doctor says. "And of you. Your senses of self-importance are equally ridiculous. A pair of perfect case studies for a psychologist."

He really is enjoying this. Enjoying picking apart the brains of the people in there. I narrow my eyes. We're guinea pigs, lab rats, locked up in a cage for him to poke and prod at while society tries to find the most humane way to get rid of us.

"I'm glad to hear you love your job."

"Oh, I certainly do." There's a knock at the door and he smiles. "Time's up. I'll see you tomorrow."

I wonder how many punches it might take to knock his perfect teeth in.


	4. Chapter 4: Dr James Tapper

Chapter Four: Dr James Tapper

After three weeks with a prisoner, the walls begin to come down. The atmosphere of this place begins to eat away at a person's self esteem. Their self respect. Without company, or the emotional outlets they are used to (like murder), they shut themselves away.

Their only salvation in this hellhole?

An hour with me.

At least for the weaker minds. Certain prisoners of this fine establishment have managed to buy themselves freedom from me. Which is fine. They're often older, more powerful, more likely to hold their tongue for longer. And then, mysteriously, their charges are dropped, and they go out into the world again to manage their seedy nightclubs or traffic their stolen goods. Hours of progress, lost.

I don't mind much anymore. It's more interesting to pull the crazy ones apart. I'd kill to get my hands on the likes of Quinn or Joker, but I'll settle for Tetch, Nigma, Kyle, and Isley. And Masters. He's certainly a piece of work.

By week three, he's lost the witty gleam in his eyes. His skin is paler than it was before. His entire demeanor is more slouched, less vibrant. There's a look of unkemptness about him; of tiredness and a lack of showering. A beard has started to grow on his chin and cheeks.

He sits across from me, looking sullen, but still sitting straight in the chair. Despite his dishevelment, there's a strength that still remains in the clenched muscles of his jaw and fists. I give it two more weeks before that goes too. Poor, privileged bastard who's never had to work for a thing in his life. This place is eating him alive.

I've already submitted case studies to three major research publishers.

"How are we today, Bertrand?" I ask. He stares at me, not bothering to hide the hatred any more.

"Fine. A bit tired."

"I'm sure you are. The results of your past night's sleep is deplorable. Your collar's report shows you only had two hours of rest with zero REM. Anything you'd like to discuss?"

I watch his hands clench and unclench into fists.

"Bad dreams, I suppose. Someone was getting the shit beat out of them down the hall. It was a bit hard to relax with the sounds of agonized torture."

"Understandable. Tell me, were you afraid you would be next?"

"I'm not afraid of anything anymore," he says. I suppress a smirk and the urge to write 'Drama Queen' down in my notes.

"I see… and what about your relationship with Mister Nigma?"

"Friends," he says tersely. "Nothing more."

"You know, in situations like these, it is completely natural to become attached to another person romantically. Without any other friends, it could develop into a fixation, or lust, or-"

He stands up, knocking the chair back onto the floor. Finally. After weeks of pushing buttons, I've found it. And he looks furious.

"Is this what you want?" he shouts. "Do you want to see me angry? Fine! Here it is. You monstrous, callous, arrogant, fucking asshole _bastard,_ what do you get from this? What do you gain from shoving your fat nose where it doesn't belong?" He makes a move for the fallen chair. "Ignorant, cruel, fuck-"

He's cut off by a swift shock administered by the remote in my hand.

It's more powerful than it needs to be, so strong he falls to his knees. He spits on the floor and when he looks up at me, I've gotten to my feet. He looks so small from here. Frightened.

Pitiful.

"Congratulations, Bertrand. You've made some excellent progress today. I think we'll call this meeting short to give you time to settle into your new cell."

"What?" he growls.

"You'll be spending the next three days in solitary confinement, sans therapy. We'll review your progress after that and see if a time out will help your anger management issues."

"You instigated it," he spits furiously. "You made this happen."

"Or did I just uncover a part of you that you didn't know existed? Trust me, as a doctor, this is for the best, Bertrand."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because," I say with a shrug. "I want to help you be the best you possibly can. And to do that, I have to break you. You know all about control. I'm destroying you so I can build you back up into a respectable member of society."

He glares at me, standing up slowly, but keeping his distance. He knows what I can do to him lest he get too close.

"Is this what you do to all your patients?"

"To an extent."

"To Nigma?"

"Oh no. I've never gone this far with him, or anyone else for that matter."

"Why not?" he says, fingers itching to do something. Most likely, itching to do me harm. I smile.

"Nigma never killed my wife. You did." He looks shocked for a moment, thinking back on his actions. "Oh, I know you've never killed anyone with your own hands. No, you never do your own dirty work. But it's about time you learned that your actions have consequences." I push the button again, and he shakes as electricity courses through him. "These are the consequences. Have fun in solitary. I've heard it's hell."

The guards come in, alerted by the activity in his collar and quickly detain him. But the man isn't struggling any more. He just looks at me with dull, hateful eyes. As he is pulled away, I right the fallen chair and go back to sit at my desk.

I suppose I've always taken some joy in breaking down the minds of evil people. But I have never enjoyed my job more than today.


	5. Chapter 5: Edward Nigma

Chapter Five: Edward Nigma

No one else notices Bertrand's absence except for me. When he doesn't join my table at lunch, I'm concerned. And curious. Perhaps he's made some other friends. But that seems improbable. I eat with Jervis instead, with little conversation. At my appointment with the doctor, I think about bringing it up, wondering if Bertrand might have mentioned anything. I know he's been down lately. Seclusion can do that to a person. First timers in Belle Reve usually have a hard time.

"Was, er, Mister Masters upset after his meeting with you earlier?" I finally ask during a lull in the conversation.

"Actually, he had a rather violent outburst," the doctor replied. "Had to be detained. He's spending a few days in solitary confinement to calm down." I hide the surprise on my face with a frown.

After weeks with this man, after forming a kind of companionship with him, I've had just as many, if not more, conversations than the doctor has. And I know for a fact that within the confines of this prison, with the emotional drain he's experienced as of late, and even just considering his personality, he would not lash out. Not unprovoked, at least.

"How unfortunate," I say after a moment. "I'll miss his company at lunch. How long will he be away?"

"I can't give you all the details, Mister Nigma," he replies with a smile. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."

I'm quite positive that's not how that works.

"He'll be missed. But I'm sure I'll survive." Something smells fishy. And I know it's not the Penguin.

I leave the office, escorted back to the common area. The yard outside is full of men, lifting bricks and chains, trying to keep in shape before their inevitable release or escape. On the other side, fenced off from us, are the female prisoners. Typically, the two sections keep to themselves. But today, there are whispered conversations hidden below the hum of the electric fence. Exchanged smirks among cohorts, and even former rivals.

I know exactly what that means.

Someone is planning a prison break.

"Tomorrow night." "An hour after lights go out." "Be ready."

It isn't my first break in the slightest. Hell, I've even helped orchestrate one or two in the past. With another twenty years left on my sentence, I can use an escape. A chance to start over. Or even just to take a decent shower without so many douchebags around. But a part of me hesitates.

No one considers the ones stuck in solitary. When the locks are burned and overrided, it's only on the main floor. Bertrand would be stuck. And, for whatever reason, that pisses me off.

I suppose I've grown attached to him. He's young, a promising criminal mastermind, and Belle Reve has hardly been kind to him. He's ragged, disheveled, and now completely alone: the scapegoat of a doctor with some kind of god complex. And, despite my best intentions, I can't help but care about him.

"Fuck it," I whisper to myself, looking up at the ceiling of my cell. He deserves a second chance as much as the rest of us. With less than twenty-four hours to plan it, I begin to hatch a prison break within a prison break. Never let it be said that the Riddler's chivalry is dead.

I find my hatted friend at breakfast on the day of the break, my plans scribbled messily on a paper napkin.

"Jervis, how would you like to help me with a special project tonight?"


	6. Chapter 6: Bertrand Masters

Chapter Six: Bertrand Masters

I didn't think anything could be worse than my cramped cell. Sitting here in a room barely the size of a broom closet, I realize how wrong I was. The bed here is nothing but a thin mattress on the ground. The bathroom is a pot in the corner. The walls are bare and a shade of pale gray that hurts my eyes after looking at it for too long. Standing in the center, I can reach both the walls with my arms outstretched.

I resign myself to sitting on the cot. Then to lying down. They gave me none of my notebooks or pencils to pass the time. There is no clock, no window, no sound to mark the minutes or hours that pass by. I stare up at the ceiling, not sure if I am awake or asleep. My mind races from one thought to another.

At least I know the truth now. I know why I'd been singled out by the good doctor. He blames me, it seems, for his wife's death.

I have tried my best, in my criminal endeavors, to shed little blood. Granted, my career took off and ended with my global domination attempt. I sent Batman and Black Canary to a death trap, but it was hardly successful (and a bit of a long shot, I'll admit. He's the Batman, I'm sure he's gotten out of worse). The most I can reason is Tapper's wife died in the ensuing chaos.

Surely, it's not my fault.

I never intended for anyone to die.

I lie here, eyes open, eyes closed, and try to keep track of the time. Guilt finds its way into my chest, constricting my heart. I think of the man I was only a few weeks ago and compare him to what I am now. What am I now? A shadow. A ghost. A failure.

The injustice of it all astounds me. I may be a criminal, but for that, should I be locked away where no one can see me? Without hope for escape? I know that, if the doctor wants me down here for the rest of my life, then it's here I will stay. For someone who can't stand the sight of blood, I imagine it in multitudes now. I picture it pouring from a gash in Tapper's throat, gushing from his eyes. I want him to choke on it. I want my face to be the last thing he sees. That way, he'll know that I'm not someone that should be fucked with.

I entertain this thought for as long as I can before it starts to make me queasy. I sit up, wondering how much time has passed. A day? An hour? How long have I slept? Did I sleep at all? Where is the line between my conscious and unconscious mind?

Within these walls, I am trapped alone with memories. My mother, my father, my childhood school days. Weeks on the road, trying to run, trying to find some semblance of control over my life. My dreams of vengeance, revenge, greed. I will never let anyone lay their hands on me again. A funeral, then another, two bodies lay side by side for eternity, and how I want to dig him up and burn him so he can never be close to her. Gotham, the big city, a fleeting moment of success.

I am Icarus. I flew.

Alongside a canary who made me feel joy for the first time in my life.

Alongside a bat who struck me down in my hubris.

I am Icarus. I fell. I'm still falling.

The walls are shaking, or is that just my imagination? Am I awake or am I dreaming when I see the door open? My father, standing before me, scowling. Angry. Shouting and drunk, a bottle always in his hand. Or is it Batman? Cloaked and gloved, face hidden, a vigilante, an enemy.

"Come on, Bertrand. It's time to go."

The figure pulls me to my feet and out the door. I breathe in fresh air. No, not fresh. There's smoke. Shouting. Somewhere above us. Chaos. I'm being pulled along, stuck in a current, through winding hallways and up stairs. Outside, into the prison yard. Through a hole in the fence.

"God damn it, Tetch, cover me!" Someone shouts. We're in a field. We're running to a boat. There's screaming and gunfire behind us, but we make it. Safe.

I collapse.


	7. Chapter 7: Edward Nigma

Chapter Seven: Edward Nigma

The trip across the swamp is arduous. We try to navigate our way through the trees and marshes as quietly and quickly as possible. I steer the boat to the river while Jervis dismantles the inhibitor collars. Bertrand lies unconscious on the floor of the boat.

"Crane's fear gas," Tetch announces. "Diluted, but still. They must have been pumping it into the vents of his room."

"Poor sap," I sigh. What did he do to piss Tapper off that much?

It's best he sleep it off. Let the fresh air in. He'll have a better chance to rest once we get where we're going.

We dock in Chauvin in the dead of night.

"Do you have a friend here, Nigma?" Tetch asks, pulling Bertrand from the boat. I shake my head.

"I set up a little... Safe house here a few years ago. Just in case of prison breaks like this." Within a hole in a tree on the bank of the river, I hid a key to an inconspicuous apartment. "It's not too far from here." Together, we manage to support the unconscious man, nearly dragging him to the place. I unlock the door and we lay him on the couch.

"Are you certain you wouldn't like to stay?" I ask the hatter after we've sorted ourselves out.

"Positive," Jervis says. "I have a plane to catch. But thank you for the clothes and the ride. You have your hands full, it would seem. And I would rather not be here when he wakes up." He wrinkles his nose some and buttons up his coat. "I can only stand to be around so many egotistic gingers at a time. Goodbye, Edward."

"Goodbye, Jervis."

He leaves and I lock the door, taking a few minutes to tidy the living space. The prison uniforms go right into a trash bag with the (now completely destroyed) inhibitor collars. I open a window, letting air into the musty apartment. How long has it been? Two years, at least, since its last use. Thankfully, the rent is cheap, and I've made a deal with the landlord. He doesn't ask questions.

While Bertrand sleeps fitfully on the couch, I plan next moves. There's a plane heading to Gotham in the morning that I would love to be on, but I'm not sure what condition my companion is in to fly. And then, not for the first time tonight, I question my reasons for saving him.

Respect? Admiration? Pity? Probably some combination of those. He's grown on me over the past few weeks. Like a rash.

I seat myself across from him in an armchair and pick up a book from the coffee table. I always make a point to have reading material with me wherever I go. Just in case.

The hours creep by, marked by the ticking of a clock and the steady presence of light that comes through the window. The sky turns from blue to purple, and then to pink as the sun rises. At six am, Bertrand opens his eyes groggily. Then he sits up, eyes momentarily wide with panic.

"Where the hell- Edward?" He looks at me and snatches his glasses off of the coffee table. "What happened? Where are we?"

"There was a prison break," I respond, putting my book down. "Tetch and I helped get you out. We're safe now, but if guards start sweeping the nearby towns, we won't be for long. Now, there's a plane leaving in two hours that can get us to Louisiana, and from there, we can get to Gotham."

"But you… you rescued me," he says, piecing it all together. "Why?"

Isn't that the million dollar question?

"I thought we might be able to work together," I say as nonchalantly as possible. "And besides, I didn't want to just leave you down there."

"How kind of you," he says skeptically, no doubt searching for ulterior motives on my part.

"I know, I'm a regular saint. The bathroom is down the hall. I highly recommend you shower and shave before we leave. Though, maybe leave a mustache so we won't be recognized."

He eyes the doorway, beginning to stand, before seeming to change his mind.

"I'm not leaving yet."

"Why the hell not? I just risked my neck trying to get you out of that place!"

He looks down at his lap, hands clenched into tight fists. His eyes burn with something that I haven't seen since we first crossed paths.

"Tapper hurt me. He deserves to be punished for that," he says, voice nearly a whisper. "He shocked me for no reason. Blamed me for something I didn't do. He humiliated me, made me feel… Things. I want him to pay." Bertrand looks up at me. "I'm grateful to you, and I'll do anything to repay you. But first, I have to settle the score between myself and the doctor."

It seems I misjudged him. Although vengeful, he isn't cowardly. At least he isn't now. Something has driven him to bloodlust and fury. I wonder if it's an after-effect of the toxin, or perhaps just a little cabin fever…

But when have I ever stood between a man and his revenge?

"May I ask why he singled you out?"

Of all the things I expect, his ensuing story is not one of them. I had the doctor pegged as a potential masochist with a god-complex, but never thought he would go so far as to torture an inmate. Something behind his calm eyes and friendly smile was just as twisted and cruel as the criminals he spoke with every day. Congratulations, Waller. You managed to put a fox in charge of the henhouse.

"But did you do it?" I ask, leaning forward. "Did you kill that woman?"

"Not on purpose. The best I can guess is she was trampled. A casualty. I didn't mean to- I don't murder. I didn't want anyone to die, I just wanted what I deserved." He runs a hand through his hair tiredly as I fight the urge to roll my eyes. We all want to believe that we deserve the world. I'm old enough to know that it just isn't true.

"Well," I say with a sigh, "Then I wish you the best of luck with your revenge."

His face falls visibly, though he tries to recover and brush it off.

"I was hoping you might… No, never mind. You've done so much already. I couldn't ask you to-"

"Help you? You have a borderline-magical superpower. What would I even be able to do?" I laugh. "Trust me, Bertrand, it's not because I don't like you. But now that you're free, I'm afraid I'd only slow you down. I hardly have any of my gadgets to help you."

"Well the- the moral support never hurts," he suggests with a smile. It's the first genuine smile of his I have seen. No smugness, no cheese; just a genuine, almost vulnerable plea, his mouth stretched to display the gap between his front teeth. I hate to admit it, but it's endearing as all hell.

"I- well I suppose I could tag along," I say after a few moments. "I do have a laptop and blisteringly fast wifi. I'm certain we could find the doctor's house with that. And if we get it done quick, the next plane to Louisiana leaves at three this afternoon."

He grins, and a spark of the charm he'd been so famous for shines through. Despite his dishevelment, he almost looks like his old self again.

"Then let's do it," he says, clapping his hands together. "I'll go get tidied up and then… then we'll destroy him." And in an instant, he goes from a gleeful young thing to a murderous villain. He stands up and the blanket falls from his waist, landing awkwardly on the floor. I keep my eyes fixed pointedly on his face, trying not to laugh.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"I'm naked."

"Yes. Yes you are."

"I'm going to just… Yes. Bye."

As soon as he's in the bathroom, the laughter bursts out.

This day just keeps getting more and more interesting. And it's only five in the morning.


End file.
